The waterfall kept crashing, birds kept singing, but everything else stilled. There was only Joely, soft and sure in my arms, tasting like tears and the happy ever after I never thought I’d deserve.
When we finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against mine.
“I’m not writing the article about The Ex-List,” she whispered. “I don’t want to tell the story the way the world expected. I want to write something real.”
“Then that’s what you should do, sweetpea.” My heart was so full I thought it might split from happiness. That’s when she handed me the envelope. “What’s this?”
“I want you to know that I do see you. You’re not a ghost to me, Thatcher.”
I pulled out a sheet of paper and read over the words she’d written about me, about us. It wasn’t long, just a few paragraphs. But her words were sharp and honest and real. She saw me—not the ghost, not the grump in the woods—but the man underneath.
I folded the paper slowly, my throat thick. All the things I hadn’t known how to say… she’d already seen them. Every scar. Every wall. Every truth. So, I wrapped my arms tighter around her and said the only thing that mattered. “You might think it’s too soon, but I love you, sweetpea.”
“It’s never too soon if it’s real.” She pulled my head down for another kiss. “And I love you too, mountain man.”
We stood there in the mist, the wind tugging at our clothes, and Bear circling our legs. I kissed her, deep and slow and full of everything I was feeling. Her hands curled into my shirt and mine cradled her hips. The falls were the only witness to the moment I let go of every fear I’d been holding and finally let her in. For good.
EPILOGUE
A FEW MONTHS LATER
Joely
Our waterfall was even more beautiful in winter.
Snow dusted the rocks in powdery swirls, and ice framed the edges of the pool like delicate lace. The sound of the falls had changed too, becoming more like a murmur, like the land itself had quieted to listen.
Thatcher stood next to me on the ridge above, one hand in mine, the other resting on Bear’s head. His flannel collar was dusted with snow, and his beard had caught a few flecks of frost. He looked like the mountain itself had decided to grow a man—stubborn, solid, and so much more than he gave himself credit for.
“You cold?” he asked, giving my hand a squeeze.
“I’m good.” I leaned into his side. “Just taking it in.” And I was. Not just the view, though the frozen spray sparkling like diamonds made it hard to look away. I was taking in everything. The trail that had nearly swallowed me that first weekend, the town that had charmed me against my will, the man I’d wanted to run from—but couldn’t.
This had become our place. Not just the waterfall, but all of it. The ridge. The cabin with the creaky porch step he still hadn’t fixed. The local gossip that somehow became my circle of support. The dog who curled up at my feet every morning like he’d always known I belonged. And Thatcher. My mountain man. My ghost-turned-home.
After I declined to write a story about the men behind The Ex-List, I decided not to take on any more freelance assignments. The people in Hard Timber deserved to have their stories told. So, writing about real life in small-town rural Montana became my passion. That meant I could write from anywhere.
So, I chose to stay.
I chose him.
Nellie had cried when I told her. Then she’d shoved a baby goat into my arms and called it a blessing. She’d been collecting more and more strays. One of her new rescues was a retired therapy llama with a mysterious past and no sense of personal space. I’d somehow inherited feeding duties, but I didn’t mind.
Word had gotten around that the “Ghost of Hard Timber” had been claimed, and no one was happier about it than the town matchmaker herself.
“I still think you could’ve done better,” she’d teased, while bagging a Thatcher-sized cinnamon roll. “But I’ve been wrong once or twice in my life.”
“Only once or twice?” I’d asked, raising a brow.
“Maybe three times, if you count that bad perm I had in the 80s.” She’d winked. Then slid a huckleberry pie across the counter for free.
I smiled at the memory, then glanced at Thatcher. “Are you sure about all this?”
He looked over, one brow lifting. “All of what?”
“This,” I said, gesturing to the snowy trail behind us, the view in front of us, and everything in between. “Building a life together, sharing your cabin, making me chocolate chip pancakes every Saturday… me.”
His mouth curved into a half-smile. “You’re really questioning the pancakes?”
